Sensing Heart
by Bye11
Summary: "...for that called body is a portion of soul discerned by the five senses, the chief inlets of soul in this age" (William Blake). 5 senses to tell the story of Will's heart: from his past, passing through his present (5x05), to his future.


**A/N: This is dedicated to Will Gardner, who was particularly awesome during this episode and to us fans of his that need to pat ourselves in the back for picking such a great character =). The mood of this is a little angstier of what I would have written had I not started this ff before the episode aired but I liked some sentences too much to just throw them away. Hope some of you will like it even with the tone dissonance! **

The taste of a loving heart is not the granular discomfort that comes from being force-fed sand as a retaliation from having pulled her ponytail during a play-date. It's not the saccharine sweetness of cotton candy bought at a crumpling stall at a Junior-High fair to appear amiable. It's not the creamy delight of a mac & cheese prepared to impress in the tiny and crowded kitchenette of the dorm floor and shared with her among glances that turn bolder and bolder.

It's in finding in the nauseating flavor of burnt bacon an after-taste of satisfaction because breakfast is always less important than answering her call in a timely fashion, to reassure her than yes, the Majority Opinion in the case they have to discuss in their afternoon lecture is indeed as lazy a piece of writing as the Supreme Court had ever produced.

It's in the not-regretting the gummy feel of stale pizza, reached precariously from the couch-side table and eaten in the morning after a Tort Law all-nighter, trying not to chew too loudly in fear of waking the sleeping beauty of his shoulder. It's in the minty frost of her toothpaste that he's allowed to use while she prepares for their morning study session and in accepting that he could get used to that exaggerated freshness if it meant peeking at her shuffling papers around.

It's in the acerbic savor that her lips have acquired from the limes accompanying her "so good"-tequila that had found a permanent place in his gallery of memories. It's in the drops of that ridiculously-expensive champagne he had sipped from her tongue when they had decided to fully honor the Presidential Suite. It's in the chocolate-coating of the strawberries that were on the same silver tray and that had made him discover a brand-new, liberated and sensual side of her he would ever have enough of.

* * *

The smell of a wounded heart is not the stink of takeout containers not thrown away to indulge in a perverse circle of misery and self-pity. It's not the sweaty undertone of that silk pillow-case, still on the bed in the stubborn hope of recapturing the lingering fragrance of her shampoo. It's not in the bouquet of sensations carried by the nightfall breeze experienced while running to exhaustion to collapse in a dreamless sleep.

It's in the heavenly whiff that emanates from the plates the waiter is serving to the couples seated behind him while he waits and waits for her to join him for a dinner suggested while laboring so hard not to sever that reopened connection of so long before. It's in the smoky atmosphere that greets him just outside the restaurant after having been unequivocally stood up by the woman whose chaos never included him.

It's in the pungent odor of an 8000-dollar wine consumed while he watches her on TV and decides to lay down the options for the only woman he has ever loved. It's in the fruity hint he can finally perceive pouring cup number three with a watchful eye to the cell-phone that would not ring. It's in the rich aroma of the double-espresso he drains in the morning after a night spent in feverish toss and turns haunted by the need to stay alert for a call that never came.

It's in her perfume, that he tries to catalogue when he is allowed to hug her one last time, among her tears and his resignation, before taking back the well-worn seat of chief-satellite in her world. It's in the all-encompassing scent of her that he lets go at her bequest when all he wished for was to make it a permanent fixture in his life. It's in the familiar stench of scotch that Diane handles him, commending him for something that would never have happened, had he possessed the power to decide his future with her.

* * *

The sound of a breaking heart is not the creaking of shattered glass under the sole of a shoe. It's not the screeching, almost whining noise of a shriek that slowly mutes into a repeated sob. It's not the ringing of the ears after the scotch whose number was lost in the fog of drunkenness stupor.

It's in the scratchy utterance of nonsense mono-syllables, she...what.. after enduring the vehement blow that knocked the breath out of him. It's in the grating noise of his swallowing to alleviate the sudden hoarseness he feels pervading his vocal cords. It's in the authoritative quality Diane's voice assumes while she explains what led her to the heart-crushing conclusion that Alicia is stabbing them, him, in the back, seriously harming the firm in the process.

It's in a series of inconsequential words that have been spoken in mundane conversations on the streets or put in countless different sentences without a second thought. It's in the uniqueness of their delivery when, in one precise second of a minute of a day of his life they emerge transformed for a solitary moment, suddenly burdened with a meaning they cannot shake. It's in the foreignness of his own voice in pronouncing them, tremulous and tentative, existing as they do in the precarious space of the withering of the last strand of faith, waiting to be mocked as the last defense of a naïveté that should have been discarded long before. It's in that subdued "With just Cary, right?", a combination he had probably heard before, and that now served as a way to suspend reality, to hang on to the hope that the world hadn't just shifted off its axis.

It's in the hinted, barely-there hiss of a gust of air that tortuously found its way out of his constricted throat which is but a poor substitute for all the words he would like himself to be able to say. It's in the hurtful conclusion he draws from Diane's words "Will, I know this is difficult" that people all around him will know just how misguided his judgment on her had been. It's in the high-pitched whimper he prevents himself from emitting when recollections of the past penetrate his mind and he grasps just how little his love is worth.

* * *

The feel of a broken heart is not the coldness of the ceramic tile of the shower-cabin, where the tears can be shed without being heard. It's not the stickiness of the finished carton of ice-cream used to fill the void. It's not the bristliness of the carpet strands, faintly grabbed during the fall, courtesy of alcohol-induced tripping.

It's in the softness of the fabric she had chosen for her couch that he fingers listening to her confirming the undeniable truth that he's nothing but the biggest fool that has ever lived. It's in the smoothness of the polished wood of her desk he touches when with a single, angry swoop of his hand he manages to clean her work-table. It's in the mist of his lips when they connect with his fist in a desperate attempt to remain clear-headed and to not give her the satisfaction to witness just how much havoc what she called "a business decision" had wreaked in him.

It's in the roughness of his short nails that dig forcefully, often painfully in his palm whenever she is near to keep a lid of the rage that seems to know no bounds. It's in the tenderness of the bathrobe he bought for his office bathroom since he is reluctant to leave his firm even at night for fear to miss some other coup brewing amongst his ranks. It's in the warmth of the newly-printed brief he peruses in the darkest hour before the dawn to trick his brain into focusing on anything other than the profound sorrow he cannot manage to shake whenever he is supposed to be resting.

It's in the sting of the paper-cut caused by one of the documents in the Ashbaugh case, not long after transforming one of his most-treasured memories in a weapon against the woman that had molded him into a ruthless monster whose only purpose was to win and win big in order to alert her and the world that underestimating Will Gardner was a colossal mistake, one that did not go unpunished. It's in the dampness of the blood that still pours out of the gash in his leg, caused by her high heels when all of the fury, all of the pain, all of the disappointment, all of the unrequited love ended up in a venomous conjunction of their bodies on a desk.

* * *

The picture of a mending heart is not the juvenile drawing of two pointy halves fitting together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It's not the tidy arrangement in the corner of boxes cluttered with her things as the first step in forgetting her. It's not the electric blue background of the dating website browsed out of curiosity in the middle of the night.

It's in the breathtaking view of New York from their new suites of offices. It's in the unforeseen respect that everyone seems to have for him and the avalanche of compliments when he spends a month there to build the operations from the ground up. It's in the brightness of the "Welcome back partner" post-it Diane left on his desk and that it's still in his hand when Kalinda arrives. It's in her enigmatic ghost of a smile when she opens with "you weren't kidding about the biggest firm in the country". It's in the slick magazine that has him on the cover that he takes from his bag and hands to her, pointing out the quote they singled out from his interview: "New York is only the beginning". It's in the general applause he receives when the quote turns out to be true.

It's in the paparazzi-taken photograph just under the headline of the Chicago Tribune "History repeating", showing Peter being taken into police custody. It's in the redness of Diane's suit when she comes to greet him with a "Feels good doesn't it? Seeing our enemies crumble". It's in the careless abandon with which they stage an impromptu dance to the melody of "Satan, your kingdom must come down" playing on his phone, to celebrate their revenge. It's in the evil laughter they share when he changes the words of the song to sing "Satan your kingdom has come down". It's in the long line of job-seekers begging for an interview after Florrick/Agos's downsizing due to the scandal. It's in the pat of the back he receives from David Lee of all people when it's clear that his firm had lost some battles but won the war.

It's in the morning sunlight that peers from out the window, stumbles onto him and lands on her back gifting to the hair that is draped there dazzling reflexes of a different color. It's in the cuteness of her scowl when she looks at the bedside clock and grasps just how late she is. It's in the flirty smirk she throws at him when, despite her lateness, she still invites him to shower together. It's in the beguiling contrast of the black and white on her dress when she emerges ready to leave for the gala. It's in the permanent closeness the two of them share during that first evening in which the world gets to see them as a couple. It's in the almost-imperceptible micro-movements they throw each other when they are stuck in different conversations as to ensure a line of secret communication all night long. It's in the incredible speed with which she gets up and takes him to the dance-floor when he offers her his hand. It's in the seething envy sketched in so many pairs of eyes, while they spin and twirl to the tempo of the song, all the while murmuring to each other caustic quips about their company of the evening. It's in the adorable crimson in her cheeks after getting back home and in not knowing whether it's there because of the intensity with which he's watching her or because of the exertion due to what she had dubbed their "good night sex". It's in the captivating wonder in her eyes when he surprises her, a few months later, with the question he believed he would never ask. It's in the sheer joy he reads there when she nods and in the love, so much love she conveys when she finds her voice to say "yes, yes, yes". It's in the unfamiliarity of the reflection he catches in his bathroom mirror the next day, just after she bid him goodbye with a kiss and a promise for more.

It's in the fullness of his grin when he finally realizes what's different: he's a happy man.

**A/N: I debated on whether or not to leave the story open-ended and I decided that all of us Will fans definitely deserve a break. So you can choose your preferred ending, Will's fiancée might be Alicia or another woman, it's up to you :).**

**Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think, especially about the structure. I always LOVE feedback but I especially LOVE it when I'm experimenting a bit.**

**Last but not least: Team Lockhart/Gardner forever!**


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